3 a.m. Poem

It’s 3 a.m. My fevered brain
Is still unconscious but vaguely aware
Of a murmur –
Like flies buzzing on dead meat.

Then, like a butcher’s hatchet
Breaks open a skull
My eyes fly open in the dark.

A 3 a.m. dark crawling with tendrils of spider’s webs, coiled snakes, scurrying centipedes.
With a parched tongue, scorched belly, spewing entrails,
A poem, half formed is insisting on being born.

Why can’t it be at 3 p.m.? My half formed half born,
I wish you’d let me stay in my dreamless dream.

-Rita Putatunda

death ... life

death
hold back hold back
hide your dark face
within your fearsome shadows
halt your dreaded feet’s
unrelenting advance
towards my door
do not embrace me
in your hungry ardour

life
hold me hold me
hold on to me tight
do not let go of my hand
your arms have
grown unfeeling
your breasts have
run dry of life’s fever
still I cling still I cling
to your withered teats
with hungry ardour

-Rita Putatunda

The Gnarled Snail and the Windblown Rose

The windblown rose bloomed in a desolate corner of the garden.
The gnarled snail, bent with the burden of life, winding his way through the garden,
which burgeoned with many a beauteous flower and painted leaf of myriad hue,
chanced upon the windblown rose in the corner of the garden,
and he halted in his tracks, struck with wonder –
This little rose, that grew in this unkempt corner of the garden,
almost lost in the unruly tangle of weed and grass,
wafted a faint, but heady perfume; she bloomed with a rare rosy plume.
He crept up to her, keeping himself hidden from her face,
dragging his heavy shell on his bent back,
and looked at her windblown beauty in silent reverence.
He then dragged himself around and looked at her rosy face
with his heavy gaze. In his heart he knew at once,
the windblown rose was his, and his alone. To her heart
he decided to lay claim.
With gravel in his voice, a throb in his words, the snail
demanded of the rose her heart.

The windblown rose was startled out of her reverie.
So desolate had she been in all this time,
in that abandoned corner of the garden where she dwelt,
she had forgotten how to hear, how to know,
how to speak the language of love.
And here stood this bent, gnarled snail at her feet,
who spoke to her of love with his gravel voice so full of
the throb of his heart.

The silent longing in her heart wanted to break free
and cascade like a gushing waterfall to slake
the thirst of her soul.

But when she cast her eyes on the snail,
she was aghast – This creature, so bent, so gnarled with time,
Was making claim to her heart? To her soul? To her love?
She disdained the longing she saw in the eyes of the bent snail.
She scorned the throb she heard in the gravel voice of the bent snail.

She, the beauteous windblown rose, longed
For a beauteous prince who would
Sing paeans to her beauty with honeyed voice,
Fill her heart with a gaze overflowing with love’s sweet pining.

But, so lonesome was she, this beauteous windblown rose,
-- her prince had not come to sweep her in love’s joyous clamour,
though she had waited long --
to while away her time, until her real prince happened along,
she decided to play along with this, her suitor,
this bent, gnarled snail, with longing in his voice,
with throb in his voice, laying claim to her windblown heart.

So, in reply, to keep her lover in her thrall, she spun
webs of sweet words in skeins of silk.
To entrap him in the lure of her charms,
she swayed, she danced, she bloomed,
pirouetted and pranced in the beguiling breeze.
Using her enticing song as wings on her feet,
she swirled, she twirled, she whirled,
with carefree abandon.
Using her rapier skills of enticement,
she thrust her brilliant bounty
into the enraptured heart of the gnarled snail,
with a matador’s cruel skill --
-- to blood him -- to bring him to his knees --
to hide the ashes in her heart.

The snail, gnarled with time, bent with wisdom,
although mesmerized by his windblown rose’s charms,
knew in his heart that this display
of wondrous grace was but a charade.
While his windblown rose offered him
the make believe sweet affection of her rosy plume,
the blush of her deep heart she kept veiled.

With entreaty in his eyes, with imploring voice,
He beseeches, pleads, prays
to his windblown rose – to open her heart
to ignore his outer shell, gnarled and bent with time,
to instead look within his tender soul
that yearned for but a glance, a touch,
a single note of truth that would reveal
the unfeigned beauty of her, his windblown rose’s,
true heart.

The silent longing in her heart wanted to break free
and cascade like a gushing waterfall to slake
the thirst of her soul.

The windblown rose cast her gaze
once more on the snail – and all of a sudden
she knew, her heart knew – she saw beyond
the gnarled shell, she looked within his tender soul,
she heard at last the throb in his gravel voice,
she understood at last the longing in his heart.

But woebegone was she, the windblown rose,
her long desolation had hardened her heart.
Though feather soft bloomed her petals,
the sweet song of love had deserted her soul.
After the dry heat of the long summer months,
when the monsoon shower had come at last
to drench her with life anew, she knew
she had forgotten what words the cloud spoke to the rain,
how birds sang and made themselves understood,
how bees made love to the blushing flower.
She had forgotten how to speak the language of love.
She had only rapier words left churning
from the ashes of her burnt soul.

But the snail is adamant, stubborn, resolute.
He wants to teach his rose how to bloom, how to blush again –
Lugging his heavy shell he straightens his bent back,
and begins a slow waltz, crooning a love song.
First, a song sung in hushed voice,
to melt her heart, to soften her soul. And then,
with words of urgency, tinged with the sharp call of an eagle,
he seeks to quicken her sluggish pulse with stabbing need.

The silent longing in her heart wants to break free
and cascade like a gushing waterfall to slake
the thirst of her soul.

The windblown rose listens with a heavy heart
to the song sung by her love, the gnarled snail – a heart
that longed to utter the words that she had forgotten how to speak.
Instead, she withdraws with a piercing cry – she spews anew
feigned words with rapier thrust.
She knew no other language to speak her need.
She had only her sharp thorns – the thorns
left churning from the ashes of her burnt heart.

With an agonized cry the snail turns on his beloved rose—
With gravel voice heavy with pain he says,
You only have beautiful petals my rose, mere heady perfume,
but you cruelly pierce with your sharp thorns your lover’s heart,
and your soul, where your soul should have been,
is only an empty and dark tomb—
I will seek another rose, a rose as beautiful as you,
but without your thorns – Goodbye, farewell, adieu
my windblown rose, I will no longer lay claim to your heart,
a heart as dry as the ashes of burnt cinder.
With these bitter words, slowly, the saddened snail
crawled away from his beloved rose, dragging his heavy shell
on his bent back. Leaving behind a silver trail which the windblown rose
clung to with her forlorn eyes.

The silent longing in her heart wanted to break free
and cascade like a gushing waterfall to slake
the thirst of her soul.

But she had only her rapier words to speak to him.
She knew no other language to speak her need.
She had only her thorns – the thorns
left churning from the ashes of her burnt soul.

-by Rita Putatunda

Silver Sea

Like gossamer silken sheets, the silver sea sends its waves, to play hide and seek, with the shore.

Cinnamon Dreams

The flower in its cupped hands
Clasps the seeds
Of life unknown

Tomorrow sleeps snug
Curled in a cinnamon dream

The hummingbird and the bumblebee tumble
And dip their lips to lick
The sunshine sweet

The inky pink petals flutter
Despair like feathers on a duster

The dream can be nipped
Snipped with a scissors’ clip

I See My God

I see my God

In everything I see

Around me, within me

And even in what I do not see -

Just perceive

I see my God in the birth of a flower bud

Unfurling petal by petal into glorious blossom

I see my God in the myriad hued butterfly

That springs open its wings from its pupa

--- Flitting from flower to flower

     Tasting the nectar of sweet life---

I see my God in a fallen leaf

Turning brown with decay

Disappearing into the earth

I hear my God in the voice of early morning birdsong

Incessantly, insistently crying

Day break, day break, day break -

I see my God in the faltering step

Of feeble age when evening shadows fall

Proclaiming the death of another day

I see my God in a stone lying by the wayside

In a tree with its spreading branches

My God gazes at me

From the eyes of a street dog

I see my God in the wide eyed gaze

Of a laughing child

I feel my God in the monsoon breeze

In the billowing rain-clouds

I hear my God’s gentle footsteps

In the patter of life-giving rain

I hear my God’s terrifying voice

In the crack of lightning

That rips open the skies

---the crashing roar of thunder

That envelopes the earth

The devastating power of the unseen

Unleashed in a thunderstorm

In the quake of the earth

In the destruction of a distant star

I sense my God in the endless swish-swish-swish

Of the sea lapping the sands of the shore

The salt of the sea breeze

The endless surging and ebbing of tides

I feel my God in the light that awakens

The earth each morning

In the darkness that engulfs

The earth each night

I see my God in the dim light

Of a moon beam filtering through

Gathering clouds 

Of the stars that come out at night

Speaking of countless worlds

The countless swirling galaxies

Of suns, planets, moons, and stardust

That make up the Universe

I see my God in you, I see my God in me

I see my God in the fullness of everything

I see my God in the emptiness of nothing

Most of all I sense my God

Within my soul

In every breath I take

In every heartbeat

That pulses through me

And when life has fled me

Silencing my breath, stilling my heartbeat

Into that God who is beyond this Universe

I will merge

Becoming the fullness of everything

Becoming the emptiness of nothing

Maybe to remain in nothing

Maybe to re-awaken into everything

God is creation, conception

God is decay, destruction

God is rebirth, resurrection

- Rita Putatunda

Comparing Geeta Dutt and Lata Mangeshkar

A few points come to my mind off hand with the example you’ve given of Geeta Dutt and Lata Mangeshkar’s rendition of the “same song”, as you put it. First of all, for all purposes they are different songs, for even if the tune is the same, the tempo or taal is completely different. That particular song had to be sung in a slower tempo, as Lata did, to bring out its beauty. Secondly, you are comparing a song recorded in a controlled studio environment, which was Lata’s version, to a song sung live on stage, which was Geeta’s version, with bad recording facilities and limited orchestration, plus the lack of sound effects etc.

But, to explore further, Geeta Dutt took to live stage performances after she had suffered a huge emotional crisis, leading to depression, alcoholism, and a long hiatus from professional singing. When she wanted to restart her career there were no more takers for her because by then Lata had become the rage. So the Geeta you see in the stage performances wasn’t at her singing peak, but on her decline. To compare that with a fresh Lata is not fair.

I must tell you, though, that I’m a great admirer of both Lata Mangeshkar and Asha Bhosle. I consider Lata the nightingale of India, and as for Asha, she brought sexy into Indian film music like nobody had ever done, and to date, has never replicated. Lata had a technical mastery and virtuoso that is unparalleled. Her voice was trained in classical music which helped her to put her voice through scale ranges that is nothing but phenomenal.

As for Geeta, she could never match Lata in technical virtuosity. But Geeta had a special ability to bring out the pain, the sensitivity, the poignancy, the tenderness, the heartbreak of life from the depths of her being into the songs she sang. While Lata’s voice had confidence and poise, Geeta’s voice had vulnerability and passion. That is what made her the genius she was. While it’s great to listen to technical virtuosity, it is a heartrendingly moving experience to listen to the pathos of the soul rendered in song. Close your eyes and listen to ‘Na Jaao Sayya’ from Sahib Bibi Ghulam, or ‘Wakt Ne Kiya’ from Pyasa, and you’ll see what I mean.

But, finally, music is always a personal journey. What I experience in the music I hear will be completely different from what you hear and experience. For me, while I applaud Lata for her unparalleled virtuosity, Geeta I’ll pay homage to for her magnificent sublimity.